


and goddamn the love that they share between them

by seaworn



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Training, Boyfriends, Draco just wants to read in peace, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kissing, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Trainwreck Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:43:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9422918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaworn/pseuds/seaworn
Summary: They orbited around each other like that for months, exchanging insults and saliva and nothing else.





	

Harry stretched his sore and stiff limbs and waited for the pot of water to boil. He tried to remember the instructions he’d gotten concerning this important task. He took the tin that had appeared on his kitchen table one morning and scooped spoonfuls of coffee to the pan.

Harry didn’t even know when the coffee went  _wrong_. For all he knew, he made the exact same thing every morning and the only thing variating was Draco’s reaction. The blond might scrunch up his nose and demand what on earth he’d done, or sigh pleasantly, asking, again, how he’d managed it. On both occations Harry had to shrug his shoulders, for he had no idea. Harry didn’t even like coffee himself. He’d always thought it tasted the same, too bitter, burned and acidic. Draco insisted there were differences.

Somehow it was now his responsibility to provide them both drinks every morning. Their first morning together, Harry had wanted to woo and impress Draco by making him breakfast. After that, it became a habit. And Draco was  _good_  at persuading Harry to do things.

Still, Harry was happy and didn’t mind at all. He couldn’t stop being a sentimental about this. Something warm and soft just tugged and stroked at his insides every time he thought about Draco. The idea that they had a domestic routine together pleased him immensely.

They had only just met again, really. Their paths had crossed barely a year ago, but it felt a lot longer, which Harry saw as a good thing; he was so accustomed to having this easy, domestic thing with Draco that his life from before seemed like a very far away dream.

He’d been in the beginning of his Auror training back then, all too well remembering that part of his life as  _too little sleep_  and  _how does everyone else have more free time than me_  and  _never in a million years would i have thought that Auror training consists of so many paper cuts_. And, not least of all,  _why the fuck is Draco Malfoy here with me?_

Draco Malfoy had, indeed, confused Harry’s life with his presence by being in the same training program. It had been surreal, living a normal life with your former enemy in the same classroom again. Harry admitted now that Draco had handled the change way better than he had. Draco had spent most of the time ignoring Harry or nodding politely if the situation needed, but he hadn’t provoked Harry like he had in school. And that had annoyed Harry to death. Harry, who’d been impulsive, verging on maniacal, desperately searching for something to latch onto, to pour his energy into, a dot to focus on. Perhaps living most of one’s life battling against dark forces did leave some kind of mentality behind. Harry had been lost, and the fact that his ex-nemesis had kept up a routine of  _good morning, Potter_ , while passing him in the hallway, looking at peace, controlled, and aging  _really well_ , had tugged at him in so many ways. In short: Harry had been buzzing on agitation and the feeling of unaccomplishment wherever he chose to go. And that frustrated part of his mind had kindly supplied that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter didn’t _do_ polite and that they must have something else to say to each other than greeting each other like the previous decade hadn’t happened. Harry had been jealous because Draco Malfoy somehow had looked in control, in his designer clothes and hand-made robes, proving himself a model student, slowly turning into a fully qualified Auror. Meanwhile, Harry had been battling to find the time to have clean clothes every morning.

Harry’s mind often wandered to their first real encounter since Hogwarts. For some unfathomable reason, a small feast had been organised for first-year trainees. Something about unwinding after a rough year, engaging with other people, socialising, blah blah, et cetera. Harry remembered it as being poncy, over the top and pretentious: There had been chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the dining tables draped with white, heavy tablecloths with exaggerated silvery candleholders as centerpieces. The food had been equally pompous, small portions of weeds and vegetables and colourful mousses Harry hadn’t known the names of (still didn’t) and hadn’t cared to know. They’d had a least four different sets of cutlery, too. Ridiculous, all of it, and Harry had been bored to death, having been dragged there by Ron, whose urge to get to know their colleagues had been much higher than Harry’s. Anxious, pulsating the kind of energy that made him want to get in trouble, Harry had focused on his wine, fussing at the too-thin glass and trying his best not to break it, all the while avoiding engaging in any conversation around him.

  
Draco had been sitting one table away from Harry’s. As suspected, he hadn’t looked perplexed at any of the foods presented to him, had known which fork to use, had fit right in with his pressed trousers, white shirt and cufflinks (compared to Harry’s jeans and a jumper -combo under his own robes). The  _prat_. But even as he hadn’t done anything that would give him away, Harry had the feeling that Draco’d been blackmailed to take part in the event, too. Draco, Harry had noticed much later, became overly polite when he was bored.

  
After ignoring an eager witch who’d been trying to chat him up all evening, Harry had gotten his excuse to escape the table when he saw Draco leave his own. Of course Harry had followed him just for the sake of it and bullied him into a verbal fight at the men’s bathroom, making fun of anything he could think of and demanding to know why had Draco ignored him all winter. It had been desperate, but Draco had taken the bait eagerly, flipping remarks at Harry, eyes flashing and cheeks flushing with rage. It had been the most emotion Harry had gotten out of him since Hogwarts, and the feeling was glorious. Harry had slammed their mouths together, biting his own tongue at the process. He’d thought that even a fight with Malfoy would be better than the empty ache inside him. Draco, though, hadn’t pulled away, instead going for Harry’s belt and, all the while nipping at his mouth and insulting his hair, clothes, glasses and whole existence, had proceeded to give Harry a handjob of his life. Harry had returned the courtesy, deliberately making a mess of Draco’s pants just because he could.

Instead of being awkward and avoiding each other, the familiar quipping and fighting got the best of them, spiced up with occasional blowjobs in public bathrooms, empty corridors and back rooms of shady pubs.

  
They orbited around each other like that for months, exchanging insults and saliva and nothing else. But slowly, a game of  _I bet you can’t last more than five minutes with your cock down my throat_  shifted to something much more affectionate, the urge to kiss and caress, hushed words and warm smiles. Draco’s insults softened to half-hearted attempts and his smiles grew a little more genuine too, Harry noticed. Instead of feeling a triumphant wave of winning when he’d looked at Draco losing their bet first, spilling between their hands, Harry’d been mesmerised and in awe at the look of pleasure in the blond’s face, the flushed cheeks, his head banging against the wall behind him, teeth digging to his lower lip, going  _fuck, Harry_  in a breathy whine. (Needless to say, it had taken Harry a solid seven seconds to follow, grunting against Draco’s neck, head spinning, thinking,  _why does he have to be so goddamn gorgeous?)_

Ever the Gryffindor, Harry had embraced the change in his own feelings full-heartedly even though he’d been scared about the outcome. In the end, Harry had needed to bully Draco into talking to him. They’d had a real fight, with Draco snarling and cursing at Harry’s stubbornness, but it had paid off. Draco hadn’t promised him eternal love and companionship, but he had promised to try more.  _More_ meant real dates with food, getting it on in a real bed for once, having breakfast together and shopping for books on their days off (Draco’s wish).

Harry watched the coffee slowly finish, turning into murky brown, carefully remembering to wait three minutes before pouring the coffee in Draco’s mug. Or Harry’s, to be specific, since they were at his place, but Draco had long ago taken a liking to it. It was a present from Ron, who followed in his father’s footsteps by being fascinated with everything Muggle. Which is why Harry had gotten the godawful thing from Ron. The mug was big and white, clearly a mass production product, with a black text written in horrendous font that said ‘I’m sorry for what I said before I had my coffee’. Harry remembered Hermione rolling her eyes at Ron and moaning “but Ron, Harry doesn’t even drink coffee!”

One morning Draco had followed Harry into the kitchen, complaining about the cold. He’d seen the mug at the back of Harry’s cupboard where it had been unused since the day he’d gotten it. Draco had snorted, asked  _“what the fuck is this?”_ , and proceeded to pour his coffee into it. The rest, as they say, was history.

  
Harry cast a quick heating charm to his own tea and Draco’s coffee, realising how long he’d been tinkering with their morning drinks, then made his way to the bedroom, where Draco was already eyeing The Daily Prophet. Harry climbed next to him, careful not to spill anything. Draco accepted the drink without taking his eyes off the magazine, then sipped his coffee. He gave a slight frown and a sniff, then took another sip. Good enough, then.

Harry smiled and tried to enjoy the slow Sunday they were having, but he couldn’t help feeling a little out of focus. He looked at Draco and his pale appearance. He was wearing Harry’s grey t-shirt that said “Go Chudley Cannons!” on the front in bright orange. It was a painfully sexy look on him.

Draco glanced at him. “What?”

“What?”

“You’ve got a look on your face”, Draco frowned, suspicious. He was drinking his coffee in great gulps, which prepared Harry to having to go get him a refill soon.

“What kind of look?” Harry’s eyes were distractedly tracking the way the warm, yellow glow of the morning sun mixed with Draco’s moon-pale hair, creating a glimmering halo of light around his face. Quite angelic, Harry decided, this boyfriend of his.

  
“Mischievous, bedroom-ish, Gryffindor-ish look?” Draco huffed and put his cup onto the nightstand.

“We’re in the bedroom, isn’t a bedroom-ish look completely logical to have, then?”

“If you’re something, Harry, it most certainly is not logical.” Draco lifted the paper higher so that he didn’t have to look at Harry. Which was not on, naturally.

Harry smirked, snatched The Daily Prophet from Draco’s hands, threw it over his shoulder and clambered into Draco’s lap, knees resting against his thighs. Draco scowled at the interruption, but didn’t do anything to dislodge Harry from his lap.

“What am I then, if not logical?” Harry challenged, placing his hands on Draco’s shoulders, his fingers making their way to tug at the blond hair. Usually Harry had the mind to let Draco have his morning peace, but happiness and joy was bubbling inside him, making him want to say things they weren’t ready yet. The next best thing was to transfer the words threatening to spill out into actions, pour his feelings into kissing Draco. Which was exactly what he did.

Draco, who tasted like dark coffee and smelled of clean cotton, let out a surprised sound, but it was coloured with content. He wrapped his hands around Harry’s waist and gripped a touch too hard. Just the way Harry liked it.

“You’re - infuriating - is what you are”, Draco mumbled in between kisses, hands tugging at the hem of Harry’s shirt. “Couldn’t have let me read in peace.”

“Yeah”, Harry breathed and nipped at Draco’s lower lip, “so?”

Draco growled and gripped Harry’s hair. “You’re such a prat”, he breathed on Harry’s exposed neck, breath hitching as Harry wiggled - completely on purpose - in Draco’s lap.

“And you prefer it that way”, Harry beamed.

“Don’t push your luck, Potter.”

“But Draco, I’ve got Lady Fortuna on my side! I got you, remember?”

That earned him a loud snort and getting yanked deeper into Draco’s lap. “Wonder what reason could possibly make you flatter me like that?”

“What indeed”, Harry smirked back and snaked a hand down Draco’s pants. Draco’s (probably very well-constructed) reply died on his lips as he let out a sharp breath, head resting against the headboard. Harry took the moment to admire how incredibly, stunningly, wonderfully lucky he felt. Draco was so alive, present and unexpected that he kept Harry grounded, his thoughts in this life.

Some people, both familiar and strange, had voiced their concerns about the Potter/Malfoy cocktail not mixing well, especially relationship-wise. Harry had gotten quite a few warnings that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter couldn’t possibly work together. Those complaints, of course, had come from those who’d seen them at Hogwarts or heard rumours and stories. They were both passionate with a different upbringing, and that had made them collide in the past, that’s all. Some said they were too similar in their way of handling conflict and that that didn’t bode well. But Harry, characteristically, took no heed to such warnings. They didn’t know the two of them together like Harry did.

They weren’t too similar. For example, Harry couldn’t ever manage to have a death glare like Draco did, right now.

Harry blinked.

“Lost your train of thought there, did you?” Draco arched one eyebrow. “Harry, a piece of advice: If you see the trouble to interrupt me and throw my paper on the floor, you should have the mind to at least finish what you’ve started.”

Harry smiled sheepishly. “Sorry”, he and realised that his hand had been frozen in Draco’s pants for a while now. He shyly took his hand away. “I’m feeling a little nostalgic”, he offered.

“You’re 23, you’re too young to feel nostalgic”, Draco rolled his eyes and snapped the rubber band of Harry’s boxers against his hip. “You really can’t concentrate at all”, he reprimanded, but without heat. He gripped Harry’s hair so tight in bordered on painful, but Harry supposed he had earned that.

In the end, Harry managed to apologise for his abysmally short attention span, and it was worth it to see Draco’s flush reaching his shoulders (even if Harry’s thighs protested quite loudly afterwards).

Harry knew they were still at their honeymoon stage. They patched up their differences and fights with sex and kept on bantering in-between affection and kisses. And it was all very good. He’d keep his head in the game, focus on one day at a time, keep trying to make Draco happy. Harry definitely wanted more, but he didn’t even _want_ to rush what they had now, because even this was way more he’d dared to hope.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the first fanfics I've ever written, originally in August 2016! I'd love to hear your thoughts and comments. 
> 
> Come say hi at tumblr @ [dotingdamen](http://www.dotingdamen.tumblr.com)


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